


Hard to Swallow

by lousy_science



Series: The Does What it Says on the Tin series [4]
Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-25 19:21:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12042561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lousy_science/pseuds/lousy_science
Summary: Bunk smut: the hospital bed remix.





	Hard to Swallow

Collins knew he wouldn’t be able to get grapes. He could have stolen some flowers, he guessed, from one of the gardens near the base, or walked down to the village to pick up a box of sweets - he didn’t know what kind Farrier liked, he had never seen him eating them. What Farrier would like was a pint of Guinness, pulled by Herbert, the landlord down at the Crown and Keys, along with a clear afternoon to drink it while listening to a cricket match on the wireless. 

But Farrier wasn’t going to be at the pub tonight, and Collins didn’t have time to get to the village for a soppy card saying Get Well Soon with a bunch of violets on the front. Farrier - to the endless amusement of the rest of the squad - had to have his tonsils out yesterday, and was on bed rest in the infirmary. 

Farrier was a patient soul, but he had no time for doctors, being operated on, or lying in bed when he was entirely capable of getting up and flying. Miller, who’d been in the infirmary at the same time as Farrier to get his broken finger set, had them in floods the night before imitating Farrier’s displeasure at the situation, saying, “He’s sat there looking like, bugger this mitherin’ pack of quacks, just stick a pill in me gob and let me go. But all that comes out when he tried to speak was,” and Miller dropped his voice into a guttural stage whisper, “ _Mmmmfgh it doesn’t feel so bad hrmghhh_.”

Over the laughter, Miller continued, his hands cupped around his throat to indicate the swelling of Farrier’s neck, “And he’s ballooned up like a bloody puffer fish, Doc’s paying no attention, just sticking a thermometer down Farrier’s cakehole and shaking his head. ‘There’s nothing for it! They’ll have to come out immediately! Nurse, prepare the patient for surgery!’ Then Nursie comes along for him and I swear on a stack of bibles, Farrier looked petrified.”

Collins didn’t know about petrified, but he knew Farrier was apprehensive when it came to the medical profession. It had come up when Collins told him his older brother was studying to become a surgeon, and how proud his parents were, endlessly dropping it into conversation “even when it doesn’t relate - ‘Oh hello, Cousin Nora, thanks for the parsnips from your garden, you know when Terence comes down from Edinburgh where he’s studying medicine he does love to have roast parsnips,’”

“Seems like they should be more proud of you, fighting for your country, not cutting up people.”

“No, no, it’s fine - education is my father’s life, he’s a science teacher, and having his son study at Edinburgh,” Collins thought fondly of his father, standing by the mantle, his son’s school awards arranged neatly behind him. “It meant the world to him.” 

It came out later, in a late night talk after dark behind the tool shed, that Farrier’s mother had died during surgery. Something had gone wrong in her pregnancy, and Farrier had watched her been taken off in an ambulance, never to come home. He thought of doctors as people who showed up when things were bad and made them worse. 

“I tried to run away from vaccination day.”

Collins smiled at the idea of a fleeing Farrier. “Did you get very far?”

“Only to the end of the road. Our Ned ran out and dragged me back in. Nasty business, getting stabbed by a big needle.”

When Farrierstarted losing his voice, Collins told him over and over to go get it checked out. His face began to lose some of the sharp lines that Collins found so distracting, and he looked like the victim of the world’s worst hangover. But he paid no attention until the Group Captain hearing him rasping yesterday morning and marching him off to the doctor with strict instructions to shut up and do what he was told, or “you’ll be grounded for a month, you silly bugger.” 

The ward was quiet when Collins walked in, more quiet than most places on base. He had passed a bustling group of nurses on the way in, and quickly worked out that Farrier had been stuck in the ‘recovery’ room, which had four cots, two empty, one filled with a sleeping airman from another group whose face wore the knocked-out look of heavy sedation, and in the corner, sitting up with his hands folded and head wrapped in a bright white bandage, was Farrier. 

Farrier’s look reminded Collins of a dog his next-door neighbours had owned when he was a child. Trixie had never understood why they locked her outside in the back garden when all the people were inside, and she would sit outside their door with an expression of resigned misery. 

Dropping onto the stool next to his bed, Collins leaned forward to greet him. “Hey there. Are you allowed to receive visitors, then?” 

Farrier nodded, and touched the bandage at his throat. He spoke in a raw whisper. “Not much for talking.”

Collins laid out a hand to squeeze his arm. “It’s all over now, at least.”

Farrier’s next nod was a touch less desolate. “Good to see you. How’s things?”

He told him about the headlines from the paper, the updates on German tactics and hardware, what the radio boys had debriefed them on that morning, and a news story that Collins had liked about the discovery of a new type of tree frog in South America, “the size of a half penny, and bright blue.”

Farrier didn’t say anything during this, but he settled back in the bed, seemingly happy for Collins to prattle on about how Miller’s finger was healing up, how Smithy had managed to break yet another compass, the still-unconfirmed rumour that the Wing Commander’s wife had appeared in a pin-up magazine. 

Running out of stories, he asked, “Do you get all the ice cream you want?” 

A look of disgust crossed his face. “Kitchen’s out. They offered me _yogurt_.”

Collins couldn’t stop from laughing at that. “I’ll give you my share of the custard at pudding, how’s that?”

Touching Collins’s sleeve where it hung over his bed, Farrier nodded, as if this was at least some minor consolation. “Thanks.”

Looking around the quiet ward, Collins stood up quickly. “Here,” he said as he reached for the privacy screen propped next to an empty bed. “Let’s see if we can’t make you a little more comfortable right now.”

Farrier looked unsure as Collins wheeled the screen by the bed, providing only scanty cover from the doorway and the sleeping patient. 

Ducking back to the bedside, Collins smiled at Farrier. “Just try and keep it down, alright?”

Once he yanked the bedclothes back off Farrier, exposing his legs in blue and white striped pyjamas, Collins slipped down to his knees and shrugged off his jacket. Farrier laid a hand on his shoulder and made an inquisitive sound at the back of his throat which then deepened to a hungry growl as Collins slid his hand between his legs. 

Opening the pyjama trousers as far as he could, Farrier obligingly hiking his hips up to make space, Collins took a handful of cock. Leaning over, he breathed along the length of it, his other hand on the fleshy curve of Farrier’s muscular arse. The hand on his shoulder crept tentatively up to the back of his neck. 

Collins smiled, enjoying the feeling of softness turning hard as he stroked up from the root to the tip. This was so different, so much better, than doing it to yourself. He gave a little twist at the head, the same way he liked it, and rubbed at the foreskin there. Farrier sucked in a breath, and the hand on the back of Collins’s neck got a little heavier. 

Licking his lips to make them as wet as possible, he bent his head down, mouth pouted at first to kiss one long stripe down the length, his temple briefly flush with Farrier’s belly, then opening his mouth to lick back up. 

“ _Mmm_ ,” Farrier hummed above him, his body rocking with the movement of Collins’s back and forth. His legs were splayed open, and the scent of fresh sweat was perceptible over the smell of bleach and soap. 

With a healthy erection pressing up against his cheek, Collins adjusted his angle, first kissing the engorged head, then tonguing a swirl around it to mirror the twist of the handjob. He’d wondered about doing that, wondered how it would feel and if it would have a good effect, and judging by the sounds Farrier struggled to keep down, it had been a successful experiment. 

So far, Collins had never taken Farrier’s cock down as deeply as Farrier had his, an imbalance that never seemed to bother Farrier but that Collins was determined to address. It took a few times, and Collins was left with strands of spit stretching from his chin to the dick in his mouth, but he concentrated on keeping his palate soft and finding just the right angle. Farrier didn’t force him, but kept his fingers threaded through Collins’s hair. 

Then he nailed it, and slid down in a satisfying glide. He took his time lifting back off, and Farrier’s meaty thighs twitched under his hands. Picking up speed, he rocked up and down, thinking of nothing more than the gratifying weight in his throat, the heat of the body underneath him, the taste of salt and skin on his tongue. 

Mashing his nose up against Farrier’s groin, he slurped around the weight in his mouth, his tongue pushing up on the rigid vein that ran along the length. Hands were on his head, his back, his shoulder, he was being held tight but he wasn’t fully aware of how. 

“Near,” he heard from somewhere above him. “ _Now_.”

Grabbing a handful of thigh in each hand, he held on, Farrier huffing and gasping above him as he spent down into Collins’s belly. Collins didn’t release until he felt Farrier go completely soft on his tongue, and as he let go he dragged his lower lip along and over the head. 

Coming to his senses, he had time to give one last, cheerful kiss to the tip, then lifted himself off the bed. A quick peek around the screen showed that the ward door remained closed, the other patient still asleep. 

Farrier was yanking his pyjamas back up hastily, looking flushed and scandalised. 

“You jammy sod, we could’ve…” His voice was still raw, but now he was smiling, laughing, eyes lit up. “You’re a right mess. Grab a flannel, there’s one on the basin.”

Standing up and swabbing his face, Collins laughed, too. He brushed hands down his uniform to restore it to some sort of order and pulled his jacket back on. Looking down at Farrier, Collins determined that he was adequately distracted from the pain and inconvenience of surgery. 

He was wheeling the screen back when Farrier piped up. 

“Come back here, before you go.”

Leaning over the bed, Collins let his hair be brushed back by thick fingers. Farrier murmured, “Give it a comb before the Captain sees you.” 

“Will do,” he whispered back, giving Farrier’s shoulder one more squeeze before standing up. “And get well soon. Some of the boys in the squad, they miss having you around.” 

He was going to joke, ‘No idea what they see in you’, but looking at Farrier made it hard to say. Nodding goodbye, he walked out, wondering briefly at what the sleeper was dreaming about. Maybe, Collins thought, about the blue sky, and how it felt to lift up into it. 


End file.
